Pensophile
by rollergirl
Summary: Draco’s a pensophile - he get's off on the memories he collects in his pensieve. Namely memories of Hermione. DMHG. DH Compliant. Sort of a Dark Draco.
1. Chapter 1

Pensophile

**Draco's creepy obsession with Hermione comes to fruition.**

**Pensophile**

"Imperio." I whisper the words, but the power of the spell courses through me with a strength that mimics how much I want this.

She stills, awaiting my command.

_Come here._ I am satisfied to see her turn from the moonlit street to join me in the shadows. I've been practicing my control over this spell for weeks, holding subjects under for as long as four hours. This shouldn't take that long, maybe half that time, but I can't take any chances. It was hard enough to get her alone. Her _fiancé_ never lets her out of his sight. In fact, he's probably waiting for her at The Leaky Cauldron where I know she meets him, Potter, and Ginny Weasley for drinks every Tuesday night. But she won't be showing up tonight. Perhaps Weasley should have met her at work and walked with her. Though the Dark Lord is gone, it's still unsafe for a woman to walk alone at night. Especially a woman as effortlessly beautiful as Granger.

_Put your arms around my waist._ I need to apparate her away quickly. It's unlikely anyone could see us in this alley. I chose it for just that reason, but still…no need to take chances.

Her arms slide around me and I pull her body up against mine. _Good girl._ For a moment, I'm distracted by her soft curves. I can feel her breasts pressing into my chest. I bury my face in her hair and take a deep breath. She smells like soap and something else, maybe mint.

I feel something hard on my hip and I realize it's the wand in her pocket. I remove it and use it to apparate us both to my flat.

I bring us to the room I've prepared. It's my bedroom. I want to do this here for two reasons. First, utility. This room already has a bed and…mirrors. And second, I want these memories here. I want my bed to smell like her. To remind me of her every time I'm here.

"Have a seat," I say, out loud this time. There's no reason to be quiet anymore. This room has silencing charms all around it. I ward the door just in case my control slips and she tries to run.

She's sitting in the chair next to the window. Her face is blank, impassive. So unlike the way she would be if she wasn't under my control. I don't like it. "Smile," I tell her.

She smiles perfectly. I've seen this smile on her face before but never pointed at me. I can't help but smile back. "Do you remember me?"

It's only been a year since the final battle, so I know she does. She nods her head but doesn't speak. She looks like a statue. It's unnatural. "Cross your legs," I tell her, "and you don't have to keep smiling. Only smile when you're speaking."

The smile drops from her face.

"Now, what's my name?"

"Draco Malfoy," she says. The smile returns and I feel a touch of arousal watching her lips say my name.

"First names only," I tell her.

She nods again. I want to get started, but I also want to find out some things about her. Get some honest answers. "How do you feel about me?"

"I don't like you," she says. She's looking at me with dead eyes and it seems like she means it.

I am uncomfortable, like I expect her to laugh. "Why?" I notice my voice is a little defensive.

Her answer is given with that same smile. The smile I told her to wear. "You hate me because of my blood. It's unfair and small-minded. You've hurt a lot of people and you're painfully arrogant."

I feel myself sneer, but now is not the time for a character debate. "Alright, do you find me physically attractive?"

She looks at me, appraising me. "Yes," she says after awhile.

I grin. "Specifically, what do you like?"

She opens her mouth to answer but I interrupt. "Wait; open the top two buttons of your blouse." She complies. "Okay, continue."

"You are tall and in good shape. Your blonde hair is striking and your eyes are so light. Unique."

I imagine she's really talking to me. Not like a zombie. "Anything else?" It's hard not to flirt even though I know there's no need.

"Yes, your confidence manifests in the way you carry yourself. It's becoming. Persuasive almost."

I'm staring at the skin uncovered by the buttons. It's smooth and flawless and it reminds me of my favorite memory. In the beginning, I visited that one more than any of the others.

She was in Flourish & Blotts carrying a stack of books. One slipped out of her hands to the floor and she bent to retrieve it. Her shirt was loose and I could see straight down into it. I could see past her white cotton bra, down to her belly button. It was over in a moment and afterwards I stared at her openly. She didn't notice me, or maybe she did and ignored me. When I wanked later, I came harder than ever before. Since then, I've used the memory so much it doesn't get me off anymore. It doesn't even get me hard.

"Tell me about your fiancé," I say. "Is he good in bed?"

"I don't know," she says. "We're waiting."

A part of me tenses. "For marriage?" I ask. I hadn't expected that.

"Yes."

"So you're a virgin?" I already know the answer but I need to hear her say it.

"Yes."

I'm hard now, but I control myself. "And Weasley? Is he a virgin too?"

"Yes."

I laugh then and tell her to laugh too. The man's twenty. I tell her to stop laughing and to stand up. It's time to begin. I didn't bring her here just to talk.

I'm standing right in front of her now and she's staring, unseeing, at my eyes. I finish unbuttoning her blouse and push it off her shoulders. Her bra is a front-clasp, an added bonus. I open that as well and push it off with the rest of her shirt. Her breasts are beautiful, full and soft. I cup them in my hands and kiss them both. She's standing there impassive. "Hermione," I say, "you like this. Act like it."

Her response is immediate. She threads her hands in my hair and throws her head back.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

We're on the bed now. Her skin is like liquid velvet and I'm enjoying just feeling it against mine. I kiss her throat, her shoulder, her neck. My hand explores her body, rubbing and pinching down her thigh, hooking her knee around my back and sliding up to her buttock.

"Kiss me," I say; her hands seek out the back of my head to bring my face to her lips. I shiver because it feels the way a lover would touch me.

Her kiss is perfect. She's forceful, but soft. And she tastes like air, like nothing but the soft warmth of her mouth. She's involved too, turning, and pressing, and sighing at all the right times.

I squeeze her tighter against me, settling myself between her thighs. She's wet and I smile. I didn't tell her to get wet. Her body did that on its own. I press my erection on to her, rubbing friction between our bodies. Her arousal coats the head though it's still outside her body.

It would be so easy to slide into her and it takes all my self control not to. She had to be a virgin. I want to take that from her. It's been so long since I've had one. Since I knew how to appreciate one. But I actually have too much respect for her to do that. I snort and collect the wand from the bedside table to renew the imperius on the woman I respect.

I tell her to rollover and she does. Her back is smooth. I run my hands down her spine and up the slope of her lower back to her round arse. I grab two handfuls and squeeze the flesh. She gasps and a new desire shudders through me.

Her arms are above her head on the pillow, blocking her face. I don't like that and I almost tell her to look over her shoulder at me, but don't. I'm distracted by the spill of her breast peaking out from beneath her. The image is almost unbearably arousing. I lean down, glad for the memory potion I took – the one that sharpens my memory, allows me to vividly remember everything that's happening – and lick the edge of her breast. She doesn't respond, so I remind her to act appropriately and she grips the pillow in her palms and sucks in air through her teeth.

"Tell me you want me." I hover over her back, resting my erection between her round buttocks.

"I want you."

I'm kissing her neck and pumping against her backside. Her soft skin feels better than I could have imagined. I don't know how much longer I can last. My arousal is on the verge and I can't help picturing I'm thrusting into her instead of against her. "Say it again."

"I want you," She throws her hair over her shoulder and looks me in the eyes. "I want you."

I nod and come all over her back, still rubbing between her cheeks until my prick gets soft and sticky with semen.

It's the best orgasm I've ever had.

We're both breathing heavily and I slide off of her and off the bed. She hasn't moved. I haven't told her to.

The image of her naked in my bed is one I want to savor. I use my wand to clear off the come and tell her to rollover again.

When she does, I see little red creases across her thighs and breasts from where the sheets had been bunched. I run my finger over the nearest one. The one that goes right over her nipple and disappears above her belly button.

I check the clock on the wall and see it's getting late. It's time to take her home. I tell her to stand up and give me one more kiss before she dresses.

* * *

"Hermione! Where have you been? We've been so worried!" Ron's voice sounds panicked as he wraps his arms around her and crushes her to his chest.

"I don't know," she says into the wool fabric of his sweater. She's standing in the foyer of her flat, the one she and Ron share. Harry and Ginny are standing behind Ron. Harry is looking relieved and Ginny makes an image of Molly, with her hands on her hips awaiting an explanation.

"What?" Ron asks, pulling away so he can hear.

She looks down, noticing she's still wearing her ministry approved robes and clearance badge. "I went to the Leaky Cauldron to meet you, but you weren't there. So I came home."

"Yeah, we waited for you until an hour ago," Ron says, "Where were you before that?"

Hermione scrunches up her face. Something isn't right. "I…I can't remember."

Harry's auror instincts take over. "What's the last thing you remember?" He's seen this kind of behavior before. After someone's been obliviated.

"Well, I got off of work at six," she says, "and then I was on my way to meet you…and it was dusk, and then I don't know what happened, but I guess I got turned around and walked into an alley, maybe, and then it was much later."

Ron and Harry share a meaningful look. Ginny steps forward, wrapping her arm around Hermione. "Let's sit down," she says leading her to the living room sofa.

**Thanks very much to those who reviewed. And to those who read and maybe didn't feel like reviewing.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Hello, thanks for reading! **

Chapter 3

I'm lying on my bed. The same bed Hermione was in earlier. I can still sense her here and I almost wish I hadn't gotten dressed. Because if I was still naked, it would almost be like I was still here with her. My body would be pressed against the sheets that had been pressed against her. But I am dressed. In navy pajama pants and a long-sleeved thermal shirt.

I prop myself up against the headboard, against the pillows that smell like her hair, and levitate the small pensieve from the desk to my lap. It's about as wide as a dinner plate and nearly empty. Before tonight, it contained only a handful of memories. A dozen or so and all of _her – _the one from the book store when I saw down her shirt, the one at the pub when she danced drunkenly on the bar, the one from last year at the manor when I got to hold her for a moment before Bellatrix...That particular memory had been edited, cut short because as sick as I am, and I know I've got problems, I don't get off on watching her in pain.

I won't remove them. They are like old friends at this point. Friends I visit when I'm bored, horny, angry, lonely. I raise the wand to my temple and draw out the first part of tonight's memory - when she was walking on the street. The sun had just set and her skin looked fuzzy in the dim light, like she was part of a painting.

I cast the silver thread into the basin and begin to extract the next part of the memory. I will get them all from my head first and sort through them later. I wonder which memory will be my new favorite. Grinning, I think I know. It's the part of the night that's been bouncing around my head since she left. She's lying on her stomach and I'm pumping against her back and she turns her head towards me, flipping the hair from her eyes so we can see each other, and her lips move. "I want you," she says.

I'm hard again, but I don't stop extracting the memories. There will be plenty of time to enjoy them later.

* * *

"Do I have to go tonight?" Hermione is in her bedroom changing into a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt. Her body feels unclean and she wonders what happened tonight. Harry is right. Something was done to her. She only hopes it was nothing too terrible. A part of her is glad she can't remember, if…

"No, you don't _have_ to," Ron says in a voice that clearly says the opposite. "But you heard what Harry said. You don't know what happened and if someone," he pauses uncomfortable, rubbing a shaking hand over his face, "took advantage of you, the evidence could be gone in the morning."

She nods. She knows it's the right thing to do, but the scary part is what she could find out. What if she was raped? What if she contracted an STI? She swallows nervously and nods, "Yeah, I know. Let's go."

They walk hand-in-hand to the fireplace where Ron waits as she steps in. "St. Mungo's" she says before disappearing. Ron follows as soon as she's gone.

* * *

I extract the last memory, the one of me leaving her on the street after casting the memory charm. My body is excited, tense, but my mind is exhausted. I use the wand to light a fire in the grate and then throw it in. That wand served me well, as it should for 30 galleons. I bought it a month ago from a man in Knockturn Alley. This plan has been in the works for months.

I watch it burn, sending purple smoke up the stack. I would be worried someone might notice the color if it was daylight, or if my neighbors weren't just as eager as me to keep their secrets.

Once the smoke returns to a steamy gray, I lower the flame and scan the room for any remaining evidence before I open the floo. It's okay to get calls now. Everything is put away.

* * *

Gawain Robards, head of the Auror department, has just closed his eyes after a particularly nasty day of interrogation, when he hears a voice call from his living room. "Robards," the voice says, "If you are home, please come to the floo."

Robards rolls over, burying his head under his pillow. He is tempted to ignore the caller until he hears, "Get your lazy arse out of bed, I've come to collect on that favor you owe me."

Growling, he throws the blankets off of himself and climbs out of bed. It's nights like these that used to drive his wife crazy. He glances back at the large bed, still made on her side, and heads into the living room. He doesn't want to get used to sleeping in the middle in case she comes home one day.

"Robards, I'm coming through whether you're awake or not," the voice calls.

Robards sees the low flame in the fireplace turn a bright green and his guest emerges. "Alright, I'm up," he grumbles. "This better be important, Potter."


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

"I don't really see why this couldn't wait 'til morning," Robards says. He's sitting on his living room sofa watching Harry pace the room.

Harry turns abruptly. "Because she's my best friend." He spills some of his drink and lowers his voice, "And I'd rather this not be considered 'official business.'"

Robards clears his throat. "So just to clarify, you want to use work time and resources for a personal investigation? And you want my blessing?"

Harry's nodding. He throws himself into a chair. "You know better than anyone that Hermione still has enemies. Voldemort might be gone, but his legacy is not."

Robards does know. His wife, Mary, is a muggleborn. He hates thinking of her all alone in her flat. "Right. Well, you're not leaving me much choice here."

Harry grins and swallows what's left of his drink. "So, do you want to go look at the scene?"

"Now?" Robards stifles a yawn. "Can't this wait? You said Ms. Granger is fine."

Harry sniffs. "Fine, you're right. I'll see you in the morning." He heads for the floo but has no intentions of going home.

* * *

"So, when's the wedding?" Healer Patil is far too cheery for this time of night.

"Huh?" Hermione is lost in a painting of swaying prairie grass. Ron is in the waiting room while she's being examined.

Healer Patil nods to the ring on Hermione's finger. It's a thin gold band with a modest diamond. "The wedding," she says, "When are you getting married?"

"Oh, not 'til next spring," Hermione says, holding the hospital gown closed with both hands, "We just became engaged in June."

The older woman smiles. "I saw the announcement in the Prophet. Lovely photo of you and Ronald. Did you hear about Padma?"

Hermione shakes her head. She's tired and weary and can't bring herself to care about her former classmates' love-lives.

"She's going to make me a grandmother. Can you believe it?"

Hermione is actually surprised by this news. "No," she says, "I didn't even know she was married."

Padma's mother raises her brows and whispers, "Yes well, the wedding was a bit _rushed_ if you know what I mean."

Hermione smiles tightly. "Well, whatever the circumstances, congratulations." She's surprised the woman would share such information with her.

The two fall quiet as Healer Patil waves her wand around Hermione's head, whispering incantations and making notes on a clipboard. After a while she says, "Alright, we're almost done. I just need to do a physical exam."

She tells Hermione to lie back on the bed and place her feet in the stirrups. "You said there's no pain?"

"That's right," Hermione says. Her arms are crossed over her chest and she's staring at the ceiling.

"There doesn't appear to be any bruising, so that's good." Hermione can feel the woman's hand prodding around her most private area.

Healer Patil says, "I'm going to check inside now, just relax; it will only take a moment."

Hermione nods, though she knows the healer cannot see. She's holding her breath and there's uncomfortable pressure against her pelvis. It's over quickly and Healer Patil is telling her to sit up. "Well, the good news is there is no evidence of sexual contact."

Hermione feels a gush of relief.

"But you do have notable memory loss and I can feel the residual signature of a memory charm."

Hermione feels a littler better. She'd already assumed as much.

"Get dressed," Healer Patil says, "and we'll discuss your options."

* * *

"Draco, are you awake?" Daphne's voice wakes me from a dreamless sleep and my immediate reaction is to throw something at her, but I don't.

"No," I say, rolling my body away from the fireplace.

"I'm coming through," she says and I reach for my wand on the nightstand to close the floo before she gets here. I wouldn't even care if she was mid-flight and ended up in some stranger's grate. Just as long as she wasn't in mine.

I'm too late and I hear the whoosh of flames followed by Daphne's too sweet curse of "Oh Merlin!" She stumbles out of the grate and bumps into the fire poker, the desk chair, the armoire, before crawling onto my bed.

"Hey," she says, poking my side. "Wake up; I want to talk to you."

I groan. "Go away." I try to bury my head in the covers, but her weight has them stuck in place and I pull hard, ripping them from beneath her.

After a few minutes of silence I think she's going to either fall asleep or leave. She does neither. Instead, she stretches out behind me, forming her body against mine. "I know you're awake," she says.

I can tell she's drunk. If not by the pitch-change in her voice, then by the sickening musk of Firewhiskey. I've dealt with drunk women enough times to know being a bastard won't help. I pretend to care for a moment and hope she'll pass out soon. "What is it, Daph?" I ask, attempting to reach back and pat her shoulder but ending up fondling her breast.

"I can't sleep. I'm lonely," she says. She stuffs her face into the space between my neck and shoulders and breathes deeply. "I need a boyfriend."

I wonder what she expects me to say. She does need a boyfriend. Someone she can bother at three a.m. that's not me.

She says, "You know, Astoria isn't even out of Hogwarts yet and she's engaged."

Oh yes, the younger, more beautiful, more talented sister. "Yeah, I've heard," I tell her, and then I laugh, "but to Anthony Rickett. He's not exactly a prize choice."

"Still," she says. She's wrapped her arm around my stomach now and is running her fingers under my shirt. "Do you want to have sex?"

I roll my eyes. It's not like she isn't hot. It's just that I am tired and I wanked before bed and I came earlier too, with Granger. "Not really," I say. I hope she doesn't start crying.

I can feel her shrug. "Me neither. I just thought I should offer."

I roll over onto my back and let her lay her head on my shoulder. "Just go to sleep," I tell her.

She smiles. She's done this before. For tonight, she wants to pretend that she belongs in my bed with me. So I let her.

**Thanks for reading!**


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

"It's a little early for wine, isn't it?" Ron has only been in the kitchen one minute and already Hermione wants to hex him.

"It's never too early," she says. She's on her second glass. "What are your plans for the day?"

He opens the pantry looking for lunch. "Got to meet Harry later. He might have some news about your case." He finds a tin of soup. "Heat this up for me, yeah?"

Hermione rolls her eyes. Harry and Ron will not give up. She's asked them to quit looking for answers, quit talking to witnesses, and quit researching herbal remedies for memory loss.

The other day, Ron had brought home a tea made from milk thistle that smelled like death. "Mindy O'Malley in Spell Damage said this would help," he'd told her. Hermione wonders if there's anyone left who hasn't heard of her incident.

And she does want to know what happened as bad as the boys do. But she can't remember anything and Harry's found no leads. It only makes sense to put it behind her. _I'm fine._ _I'm healthy. Let's move on._

She sits the warmed soup in front of her future husband. "Can we talk about last night?"

She hears his reluctant sigh and swallows the rest of her wine. He says, "What's there to talk about?"

The wine has emboldened her. She says, "I don't know. How about that you spent the night on the couch so you wouldn't have to touch me?"

He drops his spoon into his bowl a little harder than necessary, splashing some broth onto his shirt. "Hermione, you know that's not the reason. It's just; I can't sleep next to you when you're always trying to get into my pants."

"Well, can you blame me for being attracted to my fiancé?" she says. "I don't see why we have to wait until we're married." She lifts her left hand and wiggles her ring finger. "We're already committed. It's us. Forever."

Ron turns his head. They've had this argument before. "Engaged isn't married," he says, quieter this time.

"Whatever. I'm going to take a shower."

Ron watches her turn to leave and feels compelled to say something more. "Don't forget your milk thistle tea today," he says. He hears the answering slam of the bathroom door.

* * *

"You're late," Robards says as Harry Potter slinks into the office. "For the third time this week. And you look like hell."

"Good to see you too," Harry says. He tosses his cloak over his chair and heads immediately for the coffeepot.

Robards watches. Potter is too young for this life. He shouldn't have asked Harry to join so soon. Should have given him a few years to be young. To be irresponsible. Potter deserved that much. But the department had been so underfunded and they'd lost too many good men in the war. "Have you even been to sleep?"

Harry stifles a yawn. "Caught a couple hours. But I should have slept through that stakeout last night."

"Yes that was a rather large waste of time, wasn't it?" Robards watches Harry drop a thick brown file marked "Confidential" onto his desk. "Did you do some more work on Granger's case last night?"

"Officially, no," Harry says, "but between us, I paid our friend at Borgin and Burke's another visit. If you recall, he couldn't remember what that man he saw Hermione with looked like."

"Yes, and?" Robards says.

"He remembers now."

* * *

_Wizard Bank Woes: Goblins Set to Strike_

That's the headline in the Prophet today. Nothing about war-hero Hermione Granger suffering unexplained memory loss. Nothing about former Death Eaters as suspects.

I'm finishing breakfast when someone calls from the floo. I know the voice. It's Carmichael, the auror assigned to babysit me. For a moment, I'm scared he's here to arrest me. Someone saw me with Granger. She's remembered something.

I reach the living room just as he steps through the grate. "I'm here for your monthly check-in," Carmichael says.

"Good to see you again," I say, shaking his hand and preparing to surrender my wand.

"I trust I won't find anything I shouldn't?" he says and I shake my head. It seems I won't be going back to prison today.

I've been such a good little Death Eater in the six months since I got out of prison. I've paid all my fines, gotten a shit job, and had no contact with other known Death Eaters – including my parents.

Carmichael performs a variation of the Priori Incantatum on my wand and makes me explain why I used a stunning spell. I smile and feed him a story about defending myself in a pub-brawl. He thinks I'm scum, so he believes I'd be pissed and fighting.

"Someone with your history should be careful with the drink," he says, but he doesn't press the issue any farther. Instead, he continues his inspection, walking around my flat opening closets and casting revealing charms. He finds the cabinet in which I keep my pensieve and asks why it's warded. I tell him the truth and though I see he wants to drop into my memories, he does nothing. It isn't illegal to own a pensieve.

When he's finished, he sits at my kitchen table and hands me a letter. "I'm unfreezing your inheritance."

I stand there like an idiot. I almost don't believe him. "I thought I wouldn't see that money for another four years," I say, though I wish I hadn't. This is not the time to point out oversights.

"It's all in the letter," he says. "Good behavior, good lawyer - you get the idea. Just sign the top copy and the bottom is for your records."

I do as he says and follow him back to the floo. "You will have to keep your job, you know," he says, "Those terms haven't changed."

I can tell he's sickened by me. He surely didn't choose to give me my money. "Naturally," I say as he steps into the fireplace, "It's been a pleasure."


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

I work at Eeylop's Owl Emporium. It's Saturday morning, so we are especially slow. When I came in this morning, a note from my sixteen-year-old manager was waiting for me. I'm meant to clean and sanitize all of the bird cages. It's supposed to be Rachel's job but she's cute and flirts with him, so he leaves it for me. I write 'piss off' in capital letters on the note but it's only therapeutic. I chuck the note in the bin and get to work. I have to do what he says. He's the owner's son and I need this job; its part of the terms of my parole - to work full time for two years. And it was hard enough to get this job. People just aren't hiring ex-Deatheater convicts.

I'm vanishing the droppings from a horned owl's cage when I hear the front door open. The owl is snapping it's beak through the bars at my fingers.

The gravelly voice of whoever entered the shop says, "Friendly bird you've got there."

I nod and turn around. "She's a bit temperamental," I say. The man standing at the counter looks like hell. Like he was recently mugged. He's at least sixty and his once-white beard is stained as dark as the bruise over his left eye. "What can I do for you?"

He drops his rotten-looking hand on the counter and clears a glob of phlegm from his throat. "I bought an owl here last week and it died," he says.

The man smells like he's got the dead owl in his pocket. He probably has. I can tell I'm making my You've-got-to-be-fucking-kidding-me face, but I don't care. I despise customer service. "And?" I say.

"And I want a new one," he growls.

We get in an argument over whose at fault for the bird's death and after ten minutes, I don't even care anymore. I'm not giving him a new owl because he's a bastard and so am I.

He grabs a caged bird from the shelf and shoves it under one arm. "I'm taking this brown one!" he says. The bird is agitated, flapping its wings and squawking.

"You take that bird and I will fucking kill you," I say. I feel like I might be serious. No one would miss this twat. I move to take the cage away from him, but he makes a break for the door.

I chase after him and grab the end of his scraggly ponytail. His head jerks back violently and he trips, sending the bird cage to the ground. The owl is screeching now and banging its wings against the cage. The man has fallen to his knees and I lock one arm around his neck and squeeze his head into my chest. I can see his face turning purple and he's scratching and pulling at my arm to let go. I'm yelling at him now, "Still want that owl, do you? You piece of shit!"

And that's when she comes in.

* * *

Ron steps off the lift on Level 2 of the Ministry of Magic: Aurors' Office. He passes comfortably through the visitor's lobby saying hello to the woman at the desk.

"Mr. Potter's not in right now," she says, "if that's who you're looking for." She knows Ron is always here to see Potter.

Ron leans against her desk and smiles. He takes a chocolate from her bowl. "Do you know when he'll be back?"

The secretary shakes her head and blushes, muttering a, "Sorry."

"That's all right," he says straightening up. "I'll just go in and wait for him." He winks at the woman before turning to find Harry's desk. He knows it's against policy to be in the office unsupervised, but he's Ron Weasley, best friend of Harry Potter, decorated war hero. They can make an exception.

He sits behind Harry's desk, behind a clutter of memos and paperwork. There's a picture of Harry and Ginny at the Order of Merlin ball tacked to the wall above a filing cabinet and another one of Harry, Hermione, and himself in their Hogwarts robes beside it. The three of them look young, so unaware of the death and torment yet to come.

"What brings you here, Weasley?" Ron looks up to find Gawain Robards emerging from a conference room. "It's good to see you again," he says.

Ron stands to shake the man's hand and they trade greetings and small talk. "We could always use a man like you in this department, if you're interested," Robards says.

Ron politely declines. He can't make any career moves right now. George still needs him at the joke shop.

"Well, keep us in mind," Robards says, "down the road." He turns to leave, but Ron stops him.

"I was going to wait for Harry, but maybe you can help me. Do you know anything about my fiancé's case?"

Robards smiles strangely, "I've got a few opinions on it. Step into my office."

* * *

"Malfoy?" she says in a voice that's disgusted and somehow still beautiful.

I loosen my grip on the man I'm subduing and he scurries away. "I'm going to have you fired, you fucking lunatic!" he says pushing past Granger and out the door.

We're both just standing there. She's watching the man through the window and I'm watching the smooth skin of her neck as she strains to see. This is the first time we've been face to face since _the night_. And as far as she knows, the first time we've seen each other since the war.

The owl on the floor screeches and it startles us both. "Right," I say and I bend to pick up the cage. "You all right?" I ask checking the bird for injuries.

"Yes, I'm fine," Granger says.

I snap my eyes to hers. "I was talking to the owl."

She huffs and tucks a lose strand of hair behind her ear. The rest of her hair sits in a frizzy ponytail at the nape of her neck; her oversized cloak is wrinkled from wear. She looks exquisite.

"Of course you were," she says. "I see you haven't changed."

I'm not sure if she is referring to me being violent or a snob. Probably both. I look at her body trying to see the shape of her breasts under her cloak. "Neither have you," I say.

She makes a gagging sound and folds her arms over her chest. "Why were you trying to kill that man?" she says. "I should call MLE on you."

I place the owl and its cage on the nearest shelf, not where it belongs, and face her. "If you must," I say, ignoring her question. I walk behind the counter and fold my hands on its dark wood. "So, what can I do for you today, Mrs. Weasley?"

I watch her jaw twitch as she forges a smile. "It's still Granger," she says.

I arch a brow. She doesn't like being called that. Interesting. "For now," I say.

She looks at me in this _I dare you_ sort of way, but I'm not sure what it means. After a while she says, "I need an owl."

Her lips are pink and full and I'm remembering the way they felt under my own. "See any you like?" I ask.

She looks over the rows of cages and shakes her head impatiently. "I need something strong and," she pauses, "inexpensive."

I feel myself sneer. _If you were marrying someone with a little class you wouldn't have to worry about money_. Years of insulting Weasley's pocketbook make holding my tongue difficult. "How about a barn owl?" I say.

She's looking at me like she wants to say something. There's tension here. For me, it's because I'm remembering the sweet way her skin tastes; for her because she thinks I'm an evil bastard. "Fine," she says, shaking her head again.

I pull one of the larger barn owls down for her to inspect. "How do you like this one?" I say. Her fingers brush mine as she takes the cage out of my hands.

She looks at the bird for a few moments, but I notice she's also glancing at me.

"What is it?" I say sharply. "I can tell you want to say something."

She half-smiles and looks up to me with a smugness I haven't seen since school. "I'm just glad to see you working in a place like this."

* * *

"You think she's cheating?" Ron can't help but laugh. "That's ridiculous."

Robards only shrugs. "I'm just saying it's a possibility. Harry is an excellent auror, but he's young and he hasn't seen what I've seen. He wants to believe the best in people. But, let me tell you from experience, 'Someone must have obliviated me,' is the oldest trick in the book."

Ron shakes his head. Robards doesn't know Hermione. "I don't think that's what's happened here," he says.

"Of course not," says Robards. He folds his hands on top of his desk. "It's nice to see a man with your confidence. You and Miss Granger must have a strong relationship."

"Thank you, we do," Ron says, but he's suspicious of the compliment.

"When Harry told me about the young man she was seen with, I had my doubts," Robards says.

Ron jolts in his chair. "What young man?" His heart begins to pound against his chest. "Is there new information?"

"Harry hasn't told you?" Robards looks irritated – like this information is personally offensive. "She was seen hugging and kissing a man on the night of her memory loss. The suspect was described as a white male, early twenties, with light hair. Does that description sound familiar to you?"

"Yes, it sounds like half the people I know!" Ron says. "She was kissing him? Are you sure? Why didn't Harry tell me?" He stands from his chair. "I need you to tell me everything you know," he says.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

He's lying on the sofa when she apparates in. His black hair is wild, just the way she likes it and his glasses are sitting on the end table. His eyes are closed but he jumps at the crack of magic.

"No, don't get up," she says as she slips her traveling cloak from her shoulders and crawls on top of him.

"Ginny," he says smiling. "What are you doing?" Harry's voice sounds more tired than aroused.

"I've missed you," she says sliding her legs between his. She forms her soft body against his much harder one, savoring the feel of it. His body adjusts beneath her and his arms close around her waist.

"I've missed you too," he says.

She kisses his chin, then his nose. "How was your day?"

He chuckles when she kisses his neck. "Busy," he says. That's what he always says when he's had a stressful day.

She finds the soft spot behind his ear. "Right," she says, "I bet you could use something to take your mind off of it."

He lets his hand slip beneath the cotton of her shirt. "You know me so well."

* * *

Watching memories in a penseive is like getting to relive all the highlights of your life without any of the boring shit in between. And it's addictive.

I haven't left my flat today. In fact, I've hardly left my bed. Seeing Granger in the flesh was like getting a fix. And now I've been here adding new memories and visiting old ones all day. Someone came to the door earlier, but I didn't answer it. I really wasn't in any shape to entertain guests since, as my mirror so aptly told me, I looked like I'd taken a bludger to the head.

It's sundown when I get an owl from Goyle. I'm still able to have contact with him, since he never took the Dark Mark. He wants to meet at a pub in London. I want to blow him off, he's like woman-repellant, but since Crabbe's death, he hasn't got any other friends. I decide I can make a sacrifice. I don't really care about meeting new women anyway.

* * *

"Let me spend the night." Ginny's wrapped up in Harry's sheets and her body is pressed against his. "I want to wake up next to you," she says.

She feels him smile. "Sounds good." He rubs his hand over the bare skin of her hip and kisses the top of her head – the closest spot he can reach without moving.

She makes sure not to move. His voice sounds heavy, like he's falling asleep. If she doesn't wake him, he may not force her to go home. The last time she'd tried this he'd said, "Ginny, your mum would hex my bollocks off if I kept you out all night." He's so noble. Too noble.

"Ginny," he says and she feels her muscles tense. "I know what you're trying to do." His voice is more awake now, and she tightens her grip around his waist. Maybe if she holds on tight enough, she can stay. "You can't stay here."

She growls and pulls the blankets up over her head. "But it's so warm." She's trying to be cute, to make a joke of it.

He pulls the blankets over his head too and grins at the dejected look on her face. "But you live with your parents."

Her pout turns into more of a scowl. "Yes, but I'm 17 so they can't tell me what to do."

Harry lets the smile drop from his face. "But while you're living at their house you have to follow their rules. Plus, you weren't the one who had to sit through your dad's 'keep-it-in-your-trousers' speech."

Ginny huffs and pulls the blanket off of them both. "Oh, come on," she says, "Like you're really respecting his wishes? We are naked in your bed and we just had sex!"

Harry's face reddens. "I know that Ginny, but your dad doesn't. And if I let you sleep over, everyone will know…your dad, your mum, Ron-"

"I don't care if they know," Ginny cuts in, "I love you."

"And I love you, but I also love them. Your parents have done so much for me and I don't want to let them down."

Ginny scoffs. He's being noble again. "When are you going to start doing things for yourself Harry, instead of worrying about everyone else?"

Harry doesn't respond. He just sits there staring at her in his calm way. The way that makes her feel like she's a kid throwing a tantrum.

She slips out of the bed and begins the hunt for her clothes. "And who cares about Ron?" she says, "He can't say anything about it; he _lives_ with his girlfriend."

Harry's not even looking at her anymore. "Yes, but Ron is engaged."

"So let's get engaged!" Ginny says.

Harry huffs and throws his arms up. "Oh great idea, Ginny." His voice is almost cruel and he looks up to the ceiling instead of at her.

She falls quiet. It's not like she really wants to get married, but something about his tone stings her. She finds her wand in her cloak and prepares to apparate.

"Ginny, wait. I didn't mean–"

She's gone before she can hear the rest of his apology.

* * *

Goyle and I are properly pissed by the time a group of rowdy girls enter the pub. I recognize Daphne straight away. She's wearing a fantastically low-cut dress and her arm is draped around her younger sister Astoria, who is wearing a sash that says "Bride to be" and a necklace of blinking penis-shaped charms. It must be her hen night.

She looks ridiculous in her get-up and not because it's trashy. She looks like a child. She's 16 years old and dropping out of school to marry a man 5 years her senior. A man I'm sure she hardly knows. Some pureblood families still believe it's the father's decision when his daughter is to be married. And men who know this tend to pick their brides young, while they're still virgins.

Daphne spots me and Goyle and brings the group to our table. "How 'bout you buy us a round?" she says, slinging her arm around my neck and planting a sloppy kiss on my cheek. I smile and agree, but first, I make sure to wipe the spit off of my face.

* * *

It's not until I see Astoria dancing with some ginger-haired bloke who keeps stepping on her feet that I realize how beautiful she really is. She's got a small slender frame, with dark curly hair and large innocent eyes. So familiar. Something inside of me doesn't like seeing her with that clumsy idiot.

I'm on the dance floor asking to cut in before the song even ends. She agrees and the other bloke sneers at me as he walks away.

"I don't think I've introduced myself properly," I say, wrapping my arms around her waist.

She says, "I know who you are. You're Draco Malfoy."

Her mouth caresses my name as it falls from her lips and I can't help but smile. I want to kiss her, but I don't think she'd let me. I lead her through the dance and another one as we share small talk about Hogwarts and other gossip.

After awhile I don't want to let her go. "Don't marry that ponce," I tell her. I pull her closer to my body. In the dark light she looks so much like Granger that I can almost pretend she is. If Granger was a little taller and a little thinner.

"I have to," she says, even her voice carries a similar tone. "He asked my father for my hand. We're getting married next week" She pulls away from me sharply; I hadn't realized I was kissing her neck. "You shouldn't do that," she says, but she's grinning so it doesn't look like she minds.

Her eyes are blue, not brown and her hair is too tame. I reach out and wind a lock of it around my finger. "You're not getting married," I say. I thread my fingers into her hair and begin roughing it up.

She pushes my arms down and steps further away from me. Her smile is gone now. "What are you doing?" she says harshly.

I grab her wrist and pull her up against me again. She doesn't resist. "It looks sexier like this," I say and my voice is thicker and deeper.

And then we're kissing. I'm pulling her as close as possible and we've completely stopped dancing. I imagine it's Granger I'm kissing and I feel myself slipping over the edge of what's acceptable to do in public. I've already got my hand up her shirt and I can hear the giggling of her friends around us. Someone wolf-whistles but no one tries to stop us; they know she's not marrying for love.

I pull her from the dance floor with my last shred of self control and tell Daphne that I'll make sure her little sister makes it home safely.

* * *

I wake up sometime in the night with the worst headache I've had in months. The bed is empty next to me. Astoria must have left.

The bed smells like sex and alcohol, so I grab my wand from the night stand and pull back the sheets to cast a cleansing charm. There's a blood stain in the middle – not very large, but already dry.

I groan. I slept with a virgin a week before her wedding.

**Hello, I am now seeking a beta for this story. I often get writer's block so I need someone who is good at plot and I would like to make this story kind of angsty…so that's another thing. PM me if you are interested. Thanks!**


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

The woman behind the reception desk at St. Mungo's is floating files into slots on the wall when Ron approaches her.

"Hello there," she says in a voice that carries the perfect amount of concern and cheer for someone working with sick people.

"Hello," Ron says. He's tired and worried after spending the better part of the day tracking down Harry, and stewing in his suspicion. When he'd finally found him, Harry had almost convinced Ron that Robards was just a paranoid old man who's own marriage was torn apart by constant distrust. Almost. Ron didn't tell Harry that he planned to come to the hospital. That he needed to hear it from the Healer's lips. That he didn't completely trust his future wife.

"I need to speak with Healer Patil, please," he says to the receptionist.

* * *

Hermione is on the sofa combing Crookshanks' fur when she hears the knock at the door. "It's open," she calls.

Ginny Weasley enters carrying two bottles of wine. "One's for me and one's for you," she says.

Hermione smiles. "Oh, thank Merlin!"

* * *

It's half past nine when I finally get home from work. My flat is a mess and I smell like bird shit and all I want to do is take a shower and crawl into bed. Rachel floo-d in sick, so I had to work a double-shift. She's such a lazy cow. It's the third sick-day she's taken this month. And of course Chase lets her get away with it because she wears low-cut tops and kisses his arse.

I'm so caught up in my mental-tantrum that I don't notice the sound of crackling fire until I'm standing in the doorway to my study staring into the eyes of a scowling middle-aged wizard. I go for my wand but he raises both hands in surrender and says, "There's no need for that. I've just come to talk."

* * *

"I'm sorry Mr. Weasley, but that's all I can tell you," Healer Patil says. "You are not Miss Granger's husband yet and that information is protected under patient privacy."

Ron's face is bright red from frustration. "All I need to know, Healer, is that she actually has memory loss. I don't need details," he says.

Healer Patil narrows her eyes. "Does Miss Granger know you're here?"

Ron is pacing the office. He hadn't expected this to be so difficult. "I don't see how that is relevant."

"Right," Patil says. She stands from her desk and walks over to the door. "Mr. Weasley, if there is something about Miss Granger's condition that she hasn't told you, then I'm going to assume it's because she doesn't want you to know. As her Healer, I am obligated to respect her wishes." She opens the door and steps to the side in an obvious gesture. "Please excuse me," she says, "I have patients waiting for me."

"Fine," Ron says, crossing straight to the doorway. "Thank you for your time _Healer_," he says. He's now more convinced than ever that Hermione has something to hide.

* * *

Ginny lifts up the bottle to the light and says, "I think there's enough for one more glass each." The pair have finished off the two bottles of wine Ginny brought and are nearly done with a third from Hermione's pantry.

"Harry's just so damn noble," Ginny says.

Hermione nods in agreement, "Yes, Ron too." The girls are seated at Hermione's kitchen table playing cards. "I tried to get him into bed the other night and you can guess how well that went over," she says.

"Ew, Hermione! I don't want to hear about that," Ginny says, but she's smiling. "What we need are a couple of bad-boys. Men that will throw us up against the wall when we get home and ravage us without a thought of protecting our virtue," she says.

"Hear, hear," Hermione says lifting her glass for a toast.

* * *

"How did you get in here?" I ask. The man has seated himself behind my desk and is pouring himself a glass of gin from my decanter. His dark mustache is shaped perfectly to match his sleek brown hair and his blue eyes stand out under his tanned skin. I'm guessing he's fifty pounds heavier than me, though it's hard to tell with the layered wool cloaks he's wearing.

"Your father gave me the password," he says. He pulls a second glass from the shelf and offers me a drink.

"My father?" I say. I take the glass from him not because I want a drink, but because I don't want him touching my things. "Who are you?"

The man sneers. "Right, how rude of me," he says. "I thought you would recognize your future father-in-law."

I almost choke on my gin. "Sorry?"

"It's a little late for apologies," he says, "seeing as how you've ruined the plans I had for my daughter's future."

And then it clicks into place. "Mr. Greengrass," I say. I should have recognized him from the pictures at Daphne's house. But he works in Spain and never attended many Hogwarts functions. I've never actually met him.

He nods and deepens his scowl. "I know all about what happened between you and Astoria on her hen night and unfortunately, so does her fiancé." He pauses and I'm not sure if he's waiting for me to say something, but everything that comes to my mind sounds ridiculous. "Mr. Rickett has pulled his request for her hand. And I don't blame him."

To me, I don't see the big deal. "So Astoria can finish school and marry when she's older. What's the problem?" The tone of my voice is disrespectful and he bristles in response.

"The problem, Mr. Malfoy, is that everyone will know the reason she was rejected is because she couldn't keep her legs together. Her reputation will be ruined." His hand is clenching tight around his glass and I almost expect it to shatter.

"So you want me to marry her?" I say. I remember holding Astoria in my arms on the dance floor, telling her not to get married. The liquor and lighting had made her look so much like Granger that I'd lost control of my words. My stomach twists. I feel sick for bringing this on myself. "Forgive me, Mr. Greengrass," I say thickly, "but what makes you think I would agree to this?"

A dry laugh escapes his lips. "Well, I wasn't sure how best to convince you, be it physical violence or a threat on your family, but now I'm thinking a decade in Azkaban would suit you rather nicely." His eyes are boring into mine, searching for a reaction.

I'm determined not to reward him. I scoff. "I've served my sentence. In the eyes of the Wizengamont, I'm just more paperwork. I was a product of poor parenting, scared-straight by the dementors of Azkaban, convicted more on public outcry than judicial principle." I say it so confidently that I almost believe it myself.

Mr. Greengrass laughs again. It's unsettling. "You are mistaken," he says. "In the eyes of the Wizengamont, you're a bigoted Death Eater who slipped through the cracks without the punishment he deserved. You're a ticking time-bomb just one curse away from proving them right about you and getting sent back to prison where you belong."

I steady my breathing. He's probably right. "Well that may be, but they can't send my back out of dislike alone. And I have done nothing to grant them reason."

He's pouring himself another drink, finishing off the last of it. "Of course you have," he says. "You raped my daughter."

His words are like a sucker punch, knocking the air out of me. "Excuse me?" I say. My head is spinning now and I know exactly what he is going to say next.

"That's right, Draco. Rape. And Astoria is prepared to back up that claim. She's such a good little girl; does what her daddy tells her."

He grins unpleasantly. He has me and he knows it. I nod slowly. No one would doubt the word of sweet Astoria Greengrass. Especially against the word of a convicted Death Eater. I pull up my sleeve to reveal the fading dark mark. "Are you sure a man like me is what you want for your daughter?"

He eyes the tattoo, but remains unaffected. "I'm sure you learned your lesson. Besides, I've heard that you've been given your inheritance and I'm confident your _wealth_ will outlast this Dark-Lord-bad-blood."

I can hardly speak. My mouth is dry and my stomach is in a tight knot. Everything always comes down to money. It's the only thing left I can think of that might dissuade him. "Then surely we can come to some sort of monetary agreement," I say.

His smile is sickening. He says, "How very much like your father you are. But, no. I've got my own money. What I want is my daughter to be provided for. I just thank Merlin you're a Pureblood. If you were a Mudblood I may have had to dispose of you. No I think this arrangement will work out much better."


End file.
